“Molecular evidence that can be extracted from fossils is a door opener,” Jaffe continued. “We see links between extinct species and modern day animals. Animals like us. The study is leading to more understanding about tumor growth. From just a minute amount of material they’ve been able to work on ways to sequence oncoproteins with the hopes of ultimately determining why an individual gets cancer.”
“Wow, I had no idea,” Leslie Cohen said.
“There’s a lot of wow beneath us and we haven’t even”—McCauley smiled at where he was going—“scratched the surface.”
This was the ice-breaker the group needed. They all laughed.
“Okay, okay, okay,” he said settling them down. “So now we’re ready to get back to my initial question. What do we know about where we are?” He looked around trying to see who would put all the pieces together.
“We’re at the beginning of finding answers,” Anna Chohany said without hesitation.
“Correct, Ms. Chohany. Absolutely correct.”
McCauley had selected his summer companions on their resumes, the passion in their letters, their recommendations and his teaching assistant’s recommendations. One-hundred twenty had not made it. Seven did. The seven best. Different personalities, all dressed the same — for the heat, the dirt, and the work.
Clothing de rigueur was a white or light gray t-shirt, shorts, white socks and a Panama hat or baseball cap. No expensive watches. No fingernail or toenail polish on the women. They wore laced up leather work boots which protected them from cuts and bruises, sprained ankles, or worse.
“Time for a site survey. We’ll initially work in basically one hundred square yards. But it’s not what you see that matters. It’s what’s below. So let’s walk and talk.”
Now they were clicking as a group and displaying their individuality. Chohany distinguished herself as a great pick, willing to get out in front. Tamburro’s acerbic personality was emerging. Al Jaffe was smart as a whip and someone to lean on. Leslie Cohen and Adam Lobel were clearly a couple, with Cohen being the driver. Trent was still quiet, but he looked like a dedicated worker who would undoubtedly help everyone. Rodriguez, the Spaniard, was an unknown quantity.
Jaffe walked closest to McCauley. He took a series of photographs with his iPhone.
“The first time I did a dig, my site director told me to save my film for later,” McCauley said.
“Later?”
McCauley laughed. “Film. It used to be expensive.” He stopped and turned around facing his team.
“Okay, listen up. Look around. You’ve got a clear view of some sixty miles. And wherever you dig, it’ll be almost impossible not come up with something. Dinosaur Alley is one of the world’s most impressive burial grounds. Maybe that’s another reason to call it pitiful. But now let’s see where your $200,000 in tuition is going.”
“Try upwards of three hundred,” Tamburro joked. “Adding on the cost of a PhD without a full ride, which I don’t have, and…”
“Right. So, Mr. Tamburro, give us a history lesson Jeopardy-style. The answer is 3.8 to 3.9 billion years old.”
“What are the oldest rocks on Earth?”
“Correct, but…”
“I’m not finished. Some sedimentary rocks include embedded minerals that are as old as 4.1 to 4.2 billion years. These are relatively rare, but they’ve been excavated at sites around the globe from Africa to Asia, Australia, Greenland and North America.”
“Very good. Next answer — three isotopes of lead that are contained in meteorite samples.”
“I know,” shouted Leslie Cohen. “What’s the best measure for determining Earth’s age?”
“Take it further, Ms. Cohen.”
“Well, the baseline comes from critical estimates of when common pool matter was formed and then uniformly distributed in the solar system. Over eons, pronounced changes in the isotopes occurred. Computing these changes against the uranium-to-lead ratio gives us the ability to determine how much time has passed since galactic pool matter became separated.”
Cohen stuck her tongue out at her boyfriend. The others laughed.
“Very, very good. Double Jeopardy, where everything doubles. Are you ready?”
“Yes, Dr. McCauley,” said Tamburro.
“Yes, doctor,” smirked Chohany.
“The answer is, They think you’re crazy!”
“Got it!” Six of the seven yelled in unison. Rodriguez was trying to figure it out.
McCauley held up his hands, not certain whom to go to. “Looks like a tie, so, ladies first.”
“Ms. Cohen?”
“Easy. Young Earthers.”
“Incorrectly stated.”
“Who are Young Earthers?” Al Jaffe said.
The group laughed.
“No laughing gang. They’re serious about their beliefs, so no editorializing for now.”
“I’ll do my best,” Jaffe offered. “Well, according to them, smarty pants scientists…”
“Snarky.”
“Sorry, Dr. McCauley. Many scientists maintain that Earth, as a whole, has to be as old as any of its parts. If we were to light birthday candles, we’d have about 4.55 billion, about the same number, give or take 1 %, we’d place on the solar system’s cake. But Young Earthers or Ultra-Creationists base their beliefs in strict biblical interpretations and by the rate at which rivers deposit metals into the oceans. They claim that the true age of the oceans and therefore Earth is merely, I don’t know, more or less six or seven thousand years.”
“Theology over geology?” McCauley asked. “Isn’t there room for both?”
“Science demands strict testing. Religion requires strict beliefs,” Jaffe continued taking the middle of the road.
“And we’ll never be able to resolve the interpretation of the word day,” Lobel said. “Twenty-four hours or eons?”
“It’s not open to interpretation,” Cohen shot back.
“Then how come this debate doesn’t go away?” McCauley proposed. The professor encouraged the argument and recognized that they would no more solve the question now than anyone on a college campus or church pulpit had before.
Trent said, “It’s all part of a political agenda.” He was showing his stripes. “Lots of different kinds of politics. Government, the church, even academia. They’re singing the chorus led by others. And who knows who else is out there in the shadows pulling strings?”
McCauley had the distinct impression that Chohany suddenly broke her eye contact.
Thirteen
“Galileo Galilei?” the priest asked barely able to hide his nervousness in the home of the famed scientist.
The sixty-eight-year-old Galileo was unmistakable as he stooped before the priest in the anteroom. His twisted white beard flowed to collar length. A receding hairline pushed almost halfway back across his scalp. Galileo wore loose fitting pants and a thick, gray shirt with a ruffled, dirty-white collar that was pulled up over his neck to keep him warm. He looked old and certainly in ill health, but it was the scientist’s piercing brownish black eyes that warned the priest to measure his words carefully.
“Yes, and what is the occasion of your unscheduled visit?”
“By order of his Eminence, Pope Urban VIII, you are hereby ordered to present yourself to the Supreme Sacred Congregation of the Roman and Universal Inquisition at the Holy Office.”
“With what authority do you present such contrivance?” Galileo defiantly demanded.
“I am the Inquisitor of Florence,” the local priest, half Galileo’s age, affirmed.
“You?” Galileo hazarded a throaty, phlegm-filled laugh.
“You are compelled to comply.”
“And the charges against me?”
“They are here.”
The Inquisitor handed Galileo a document. The ailing scientist read the official declaration from the Vatican Inquisition. The principal charge referred back to 1616 when the church’s Index of Forbidden Books censored the works of Copernicus. At that time, Jesuit cardinal Robert Bellarmine instructed Galileo never to hold or defend the opinion that the Earth moved. Galileo agreed but arguably only loosely complied.
“I have a certificate signed by Cardinal Bellarmine that states I have no such restriction other than any applied under the edict of 1616.”
“Which, according to the charges, you violated. I suggest you find it.” The priest felt empowered and fully in control now. “Though such a paper should bring you little consolation.”
“This is how they come to me?” Galileo looked up to the heavens. He sighed heavily. “I would request that any proceedings against me, no matter how fabricated, be settled here.”
“His Holiness requests your presence in Rome.”
“But, as you can see, I am in ill health. An extended trip to Rome will take its toll.” Galileo coughed, not just for effect. He was sick.
His request was denied. In late January, 1633, Galileo began an arduous journey to Rome in the dead of winter. Twenty-three days later, two days before his sixty-ninth birthday, weakened by crippling sciatic pain, he took up residency in the Florentine embassy. Over the next four months, he tried to get his strength back to endure the private hearings and public humiliation. As he prepared, Galileo feared for what the Inquisitors would conclude from his writing given their strict Biblical interpretations, and what they might find if they explored further. He was certain the punishment would be death.